We were like our own Jerry Springer episode me and this guy. But it wasn’t always that way. We met. We liked one another. We shared the same interests—we were both easily bored and we liked adventure. And by adventure, more often than not, I mean trouble. And by liked, more often than not, I mean desired.
One of the first things he told me that I actually remember was that I look like trouble. I wasn’t sure if it was a pick up line or a warning, but those words made me feel warm and my actions right.
We would start fights on bridges that would end up in bedrooms—drunken, stupid fights in the middle of winter that left both of us cold, tired and defeated. He would set my bras that I left at his apartment on fire and send me photographic evidence of his rage. After all was forgiven, I would look back on those moments and think of them as acts of romance— minor instants of misplaced love. When waiting in lines and crossing through city parks on my way to work I would imagine all the intensity he must have felt while torching my delicate underthings and I would smile to myself on occasion. How silly! How juvenile and dysfunctional of me to think that way. I should have figured it out then. I should have known it was never romance. This was never love. This was a game –Russian roulette for the emotionally negligent.
image Rene Magritte